Bitten
by Dannyblue
Summary: Dean must take charge after Sam gets bitten.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Bitten  
**Author: **Dannyblue  
**Email: **PG  
**Summary: **Dean must take charge after Sam gets bitten.  
**Disclaimer: **SUPERNATURAL and its characters do not belong to me. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.  
**Distribution: **All you have to do is ask.  
**Feedback: **Yes, please.

**PART ONE **

There was blood everywhere.

Dean clutched the steering wheel with one slippery, blood-soaked hand. The other was holding a towel against the side of Sam's neck.

A white towel that was quickly turning dark red.

Dean swallowed against the nausea that wouldn't stop turning his stomach. It wasn't like he'd never seen blood before. Plenty of times. His own, as a matter of fact.

But, somehow, this was different.

"Sammy," Dean began, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "You still with me over there?"

There was a long pause. Long enough to worry him. Then, finally…

"It's Sam," came the faint reply.

Lips twitching with the hint of a smile—even as his heart sank at how weak Sam sounded—Dean took his eyes off the moonlit road long enough to study his brother. Sam's tall, lanky form was slouched in the passenger seat, his arms resting uselessly at his side. His eyes were closed, his head lolling back against the headrest.

"How you feeling?" Dean asked, turning his eyes back to the road.

"Fine," was Sam's automatic reply. Then, a second later, "Tired. And dizzy."

Dean nodded, even though there was no one to see. "Well, we're almost at the motel. Then, you can lie down, and we'll…take care of this."

Sam nodded a little, just enough to make the towel shift. Dean had to readjust in order to keep it pressed tight against the wound. And the car swerved a little to the right

"I can take it now," Sam said, sounding a hint stronger, even though the five words slurred together just a little.

Dean glanced over at him, not trying to hide his doubt since Sam couldn't see. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Sam insisted. Then he forced his eyes open, as if to prove the point. "I'm sure." Then, after a pause, his arms lifted, slow and unsteady, trembling just enough for Dean to see in the near darkness. Finally, both of his hands were covering Dean's atop the towel. "See?"

What Dean saw was that Sam was a pale as a block of marble.

"Sure you got it?" Dean asked, even as he noticed how cold his brother's hands were.

Eyes already closed again, Sam only nodded.

Reluctantly, Dean let go, pulling his hand from beneath Sam's. And, almost immediately, he felt…disconnected. It was almost like touching Sam was proof he was still there, still relatively okay. Now that he wasn't touching Sam anymore, wasn't physically connected anymore, some irrational part of him was suddenly afraid Sam would slip away without him noticing.

_Get a grip, Winchester, _Dean told himself as he wrapped his hand around the steering wheel… and tried not to cringe at how stiff the drying blood felt against his knuckles.

The wound wasn't that bad, really. Not too deep, not too wide. It was putting on a great show with all the bleeding and stuff. But that was all superficial. Any doctor would take one look at it and say, "Apply pressure. Clean it. Patch it up. Good as new."

But this was his _brother_. His brother slumped in his seat, too weak to keep his eyes open for long. His brother's blood, coating his hands like dark red ink, filling the car with that thick, coppery smell. His brother's throat that... _thing_ tried to take a chunk out of.

And Dean would pay good money to be able to kill _that_ bitch again.

Despite his deeply ingrained aversion to going to a hospital—bringing that kind of attention down on them—Dean would be speeding towards the nearest ER if he thought, for one second, that it would help.

But the wound, the blood loss, wasn't the reason Sam had gotten so weak so fast. It wasn't the reason the bleeding didn't want to stop. The real reason was nothing a doctor could help them with. Dean was probably the only person within a hundred miles—besides Sam—who knew what to do.

_You sure about that, buddy boy? _

That cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—that had been there since the warehouse—settled in a little deeper.

"Shut up," Dean growled at his annoying inner voice.

"Hmmm?" Sam murmured, turning his head to face Dean, but still not opening his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean said. Taking his hand from the steering wheel, he squeezed his brother's shoulder. "Hold on, Sam. We're almost there."

(TO BE CONTINUED)


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Bitten (2?)  
Author: Dannyblue  
Email: PG  
Summary: Dean must take charge after Sam gets bitten.  
Disclaimer: SUPERNATURAL and its characters do not belong to me. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.  
Distribution: All you have to do is ask.  
Feedback: Yes, please.

**PART TWO**

Sam's muffled screams filled the motel room.

He was lying on his right side, several thick towels folded under his head to catch the holy water and diluted blood rolling down his neck. And Dean was sitting beside him, feeling so helpless, he might as well have been a million miles away.

Closing his eyes, Dean took a long, shaky breath. He could feel those screams inside him, like punches to his gut. He was tempted to press his hands over his ears, to block those screams out. But his hands weren't exactly free. One was holding the bottle. The other was holding Sam's shoulder, offering as much comfort as he could.

Which wasn't a hell of a lot.

And Sam was still screaming, face pressed against the pillow so their fellow lodgers wouldn't think someone was being murdered over here and call the cops. One hand was clutching Dean's jean-clad thigh hard enough to leave bruises.

"It's okay, Sam," he said past the lump in his throat. "It'll be over soon."

_Let it be over soon, damn it!_

After a moment that felt like forever, the screaming stopped. Sam's body, which had been stiff as a board, relaxed. The hand clutching Dean's thigh eased off.

Sighing in relief, Dean leaned forward to place the bottle of holy water on the nightstand. His hands were shaking just enough to make the water slosh around inside.

"Fuck!" Sam growled, face still frozen in a grimace of pain.

"Sam!" Dean gasped, managing to sound scandalized. "Watch your mouth there, little brother. I thought college boys were supposed to have better manners than that."

Sam grunted, which was probably as much laughing as he could do at the moment. But it was enough to make Dean feel a little better.

Taking a piece of gauze from the first aid kit, Dean dabbed at the wound. The holy water had stopped the bleeding almost immediately, sizzling and bubbling as it flowed across Sam's torn flesh. And the wound…

_The **bite**,_ that annoying inner voice interrupted. _Bite! You think calling it something else will change what it is?_

The **wound**—Dean mentally continued with determination—looked relatively clean. Almost harmless, now.

Of course, if anyone knew how false illusions could be, it was the Winchesters.

"That fucking hurt," Sam grumbled, sounding like a 12 year-old. A very tired 12 year old. "Like acid or something."

"Well, that's how you know it's working," Dean quipped cheerfully. "Besides, it's better than a nasty case of vampire cooties, right?"

Sam couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. Cracking open one eye, he gave Dean a look of disbelief. "Vampire cooties?"

"Well, yeah. What else you gonna call it?"

Sam seemed to give it some thought before shrugging and closing his eyes again.

Dean started to dress the wound. He was almost done when Sam whispered, "You sure this is gonna work?"

That was the question, wasn't it?

"No reason why it shouldn't," Dean answered, sounding very certain. Very sure. Shoving his own doubts back down. "It worked for Dad."

That it had. John Winchester had been bitten during one of his solo hunts. A local shaman told him to pour holy water on the wound, and he'd be fine. So he did, and he _was_. Well, he'd had a slightly higher temperature than normal for about 24 hours, but that was it.

Well, if it worked for Dad…

_But that thing tonight wasn't anything like what Dad described in his journal. You got a good look at it's face, right? Did it look the same? What if they're like frickin' dogs, with different breeds or something? What if what works on the bites from one kind doesn't work on the bites from another? What if…?_

Since he couldn't make the voice shut up, Dean chose to ignore it. Applying the last piece of tape to the bandage, he pressed it down with gentle, practiced hands. "There you are. Good as new." The pat on Sam's back was solid, downright jovial.

Sam groaned a little at the jostling.

"Oh," Dean said, making himself sound a little less than sincere. "Sorry about that."

"Yeah, right," Sam grumbled. But his lips twitched with the hint of a smile.

And that was all that mattered. Keep Sam preoccupied. Make him smile if you can. Piss him off, if necessary. Don't give him a chance to start thinking and worrying.

Dean eased the towels from beneath Sam's head. Feeling the mattress beneath, he was satisfied no moisture had gotten through. Tossing the towels on the floor—he'd take care of them later—Dean stuffed the supplies back into the first aid kit. "You want to get out of those clothes now?" Clothes covered with dried blood and holy water.

"I don't want to _move_," Sam mumbled, snuggling deeper into the mattress.

Nodding, Dean stood. "Okay. You catch some Z's while I take the kit out to the car."

"Now?" Opening his eyes, Sam frowned. "Why?"

"Because I didn't lock up the car before dragging _your_ ass in here," Dean answered, getting another faint smile from Sam. "And the last thing I want to have to do tomorrow is track down and beat the crap out of any idiot dumb enough to steal it." Picking up the first aid kit, he walked to the door. "Back in a minute."

* * *

Dean slammed the trunk shut harder than he usually would. But the violent action was too small, too brief, to do anything about the dull, frustrated ache that had lodged itself in his chest. If anything, it just made the ache grow.

Jaw clenching and unclenching, he pressed his palms against the trunk. He wanted to hit something. To drive his fists into flesh—or scales, or quills, or whatever the hell he was pounding on happened to have—until his hands were covered with blood. His or there's, it didn't really matter.

_Any_ blood, as long as it wasn't Sam's.

Dean looked down at his hands. He'd washed them as soon as he could, but hadn't had time to be very thorough about it. In the moonlight, he could still see traces of Sam's blood—dry and flaky by now—under his fingernails.

Dean closed his eyes, deciding not to look at his hands again until they were clean.

He'd killed that vamp too quick, been too worried about Sam to really enjoy the moment. He barely remembered driving a stake into the bitch's heart. Now that the danger had passed, and Sam was okay—

_You sure about that?_

—he wanted another target. _Needed_ something else to unload all this rage and fear on. But unless he wanted to leave Sammy alone to go off hunting by himself…

_No fucking way,_ his inner voice growled.

Dean nodded. Finally, they agreed on something.

Turning, he leaned against the trunk of the Impala. Eyes still closed, he let his head fall back, until he could feel the silver moonlight pressing against his face.

Almost immediately, the black canvas of his closed eyelids was filled with the image of Sam screaming, that _thing_ clinging to his back. His own heart dropping to his feet, and the cold chill of panic falling over him like ice water.

The pain, the terror, of the memory cut at his insides like razor blades.

He'd been so _sure_ the thing was in front of them, only to have it drop out of the rafters of the big, abandoned warehouse.

He'd made a mistake. And his brother had paid.

Dean let the memories scratch at his mind like claws, digging deep. Strengthening his resolve to never let it happen again.

Only, it _would_ happen again, wouldn't it? The kind of work they did, the things they fought, there was no way Sam wouldn't get hurt. And, when he did, it would mean Dean had failed to protect his brother. Again.

Moments like this—and there had been too many to count—Dean wanted to stuff Sam into the car and drive his ass back to Stanford. Back to his normal life. Which was sure as hell a lot safer than this one.

Turning his head, Dean stared at the door to their motel room. Even if Dean offered to drive him back to Stanford, Sam would never leave. Not now. Not until they found Dad, and the thing that killed Jessica. And maybe not even then.

And Dean couldn't help the warm feeling of relief that thought gave him.

"Because you're a selfish ass hole," he muttered to himself. Because, as much as he wanted Sam to be safe, to have that normal life he wanted, where he was less likely to get ripped apart by some pissed of poltergeist…he wanted his brother by his side even more.

Sighing, Dean stood up. He had to get back. If Sam wasn't asleep by now, he might start wondering where Dean was. Might even try to get out of bed to come find him. And if he made it to the door without passing out, Dean didn't want to be found sitting out here, shoulders slumped, feeling defeated, and selfish, and...

Shaking his head, Dean walked towards their motel room. And ignored the uncertainties that seemed to be riding his heels.

(TO BE CONTINUED)


End file.
